


The First Day Of The Rest Of Your Life

by Wren_bird



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Real World, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Felicity Montague Has a Plan, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Mention of Pining, Mentioned/Implied Addiction, Mentioned/Implied Past Abuse, Monty is a Disaster in Any Universe, They Look After Each Other, We got it all folks, building a life together, job hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_bird/pseuds/Wren_bird
Summary: “Good morning,” Monty murmurs, careful not to disturb the peace.Percy grins at him. His nose wrinkles, and Monty resists the urge to kiss it. Then he remembers that he can, actually, kiss Percy now, and does so with ardor.“Morning,” Percy replies. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”Monty's been thrown out of his father's house, straight into the lap of his brand-new boyfriend. Now he's ready to take the real world by storm. How hard can it be?
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	The First Day Of The Rest Of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy the product of two days of being snowed in my house. Thanks, Canadian winters!

Monty wakes up to the sun in his face. He doesn’t open his eyes, and his vision is swimming with reds and oranges. Damn you, east-facing windows. 

He’s so familiar with this room, Percy’s room, that it takes him a moment to remember that there’s anything different from the countless times he’s woken up in his bed. Although, usually, he would be wearing some form of clothing, and be in varying degrees of hangover. 

His mind is clear, now, except for the grogginess that comes with waking up at whatever absurd hour the sun accosts Percy’s bedroom. Monty is fully aware of his current state of undress, and even more so of Percy’s, who has every inch of his body pressed up against Monty’s backside, complete with an arm flung across his waist. 

Monty wonders, for a moment, if the novelty of waking up in Percy’s arms will ever wear off. Their relationship is only in the early stages — at the beginning of the week, Monty had no idea he’d soon be romping around in bed with his best friend. Or, for that matter, that he would be blacklisted from the Montague clan. 

But the disowning was rather inevitable, in his opinion. And Percy ... well, maybe that was inevitable, too. God knows he’s been wanting it for long enough, and when unbridled pining goes on for as long as it did with them, it’s only natural for things to move quickly. 

Monty musters up the strength to open his eyes. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he realizes that Percy’s bedroom is in an uncharacteristic state of disarray. Three suitcases are stacked by the door, and their clothes from yesterday tossed haphazardly on the floor. He smiles to himself as he recalls fumbling with the buttons on Percy’s shirt while his warm lips ghosted across the skin of Monty’s throat. 

The same lips press an equally warm, though firmer, kiss to the nape of his neck. Monty turns in Percy’s arms, so they’re nose-to-nose. 

“Good morning,” Monty murmurs, careful not to disturb the peace. 

Percy grins at him. His nose wrinkles, and Monty resists the urge to kiss it. Then he remembers that he can, actually, kiss Percy now, and does so with ardor. 

“Morning,” Percy replies. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”

A fishing hook catches hold of Monty’s stomach and gives it a strong tug. He’s really done it. The world of expensive champagne, cravats, long nights at Eton, shoving his hand up young women’s skirts on cabrioles is behind him. The pounding heart and distant tremble surprise him. After all, he’d spent most of his life wishing he was somewhere else. But then he tears his gaze from Percy’s adorably freckled nose, and looks into his deep, familiar eyes, and the tremors smooth out. The life ahead of him is a happy one. He’s got his boyfriend at his side, and his dashing good-looks, and two suitcases of his best clothes and another of his valuables. What more could he need?

“How’re you feeling?” Percy asks, and Christ on a bike, his voice sounds perfect in the mornings. Monty wants to tie his voice to a bedpost and whisper filthy things in its figurative ear. 

“Like I’ve jumped off a cliff and don’t know how deep the water is.”

Percy murmurs something incomprehensible, and pulls Monty towards him, so that he can bury his face in the crook of his neck. “The water’s plenty deep, love,” Percy says. 

Monty is glad that he and Felicity chose a Friday night to tell their father to fuck off, and ultimately be thrown out on their asses. He’s got the whole weekend to settle in before Percy’s classes start up again. 

He lets Percy doze for a while longer, then shimmies out of his grasp. Percy grumbles in protest, extending a hand to try and pull him back. Monty takes hold of his hand, kisses his knuckles, and whispers, “Won’t be a moment.”

He picks a pair of boxers off the floor on his way out of the bedroom. He’s not an upper-class gentleman anymore, and there won’t be continental breakfasts waiting for him on the dining table right when he wakes up. Monty wants to take advantage of his new status as middle-class-at-best, and do something that has always been a sweet, if unlikely, fantasy of his — bring Percy tea in bed. 

Percy has a flat of his own, partially paid for by his aunt and uncle. It’s tiny, with a kitchen and lounge the same size as Monty’s room in his father’s house, and only one bedroom and bathroom to accompany it, but at least it’s clean, and in a safe neighbourhood. 

Monty is standing at the counter when he realizes he doesn’t have any idea how to make tea. He’s watched Percy do it a thousand times, but, back then, he wasn’t focusing on the actual process. Mostly, it was Percy’s ass, or Percy’s thighs, or Percy’s forearms in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up that caught his attention. There was ... a kettle. The kettle needs water. Water from the sink, or the dispenser in the fridge?

Monty decides on the fridge. London’s tap water can’t be too clean, can it? It takes him a moment to figure out how to open the lid (there’s a button on the handle), and another moment to decide how much water he needs (one litre should be enough for two people). He puts the kettle back on its stand and presses the ‘on’ button. 

While the water boils, Monty gets two mugs out of the cabinet. Percy owns an absurd amount of mugs for a one — now two, he supposes — person household, and it’s all Monty’s doing. It started with a souvenir mug from his trip to New York City, and then a delicate tea cup stolen from that wedding in Paris, and before he knew it, Monty was sending Percy mugs whenever he happened upon them in gift shops. He picks one from the House of Music in Vienna, which is Percy’s self-proclaimed favourite, (Music Performance majors. So predictable), and a particularly tacky mug from Niagara Falls for himself. 

Monty roots around in the cupboards, looking for tea bags. He finds a box of Orange Pekoe in the cupboard above the extractor fan, and takes out two sachets. Two for two people, that sounds right. 

Steam begins to pour out of the spout of the kettle, and Monty decides the most logical course of action is to open the lid and drop the tea bags inside. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Monty glances up to see Percy stumbling out of the bedroom, draped in his duvet but otherwise exposed. He’s giving Monty _that_ look, which usually means he’s just gone and done something completely moronic. 

“I’m making a romantic gesture,” he says. “Only for you, Percy, my love of all loves. It’s tea. We were supposed to have it in bed, but—”

“Have you _never_ made tea before?” Percy interrupts, joining Monty at the counter. 

“Well … not exactly. You usually take care of that for me. Or a barista, or the cook at my father’s house. Why? What’s the matter?”

Percy runs both hands through his hair, effectively raising the duvet and revealing his best leg of three. It takes every fibre of self-restraint Monty has not to ogle him. But, then, he doesn’t have much self-restraint to begin with, and ends up staring at it anyways. 

Percy sighs, and looks at Monty with a doe-eyed expression, the sort whose meaning he’s only just figured out. He wonders how he ever overlooked such obvious yearning. 

Percy places a hand on either side of Monty’s neck, lowers himself so they’re at the same level, and says, “I appreciate the gesture, but that’s really, _really_ not how it’s done.”

Monty blinks at him. “Isn’t it?”

“Not unless you want tea-flavoured everything when you use the kettle.”

Monty lets his head fall onto Percy’s chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, and says, “Sorry. I’m so sorry, I — I didn’t know…”

“It’s alright,” Percy replies. “It’s just a kettle, love. Hell, it means more that you tried to make me tea even though you’ve never done it before.”

“If I can’t make tea, how the fuck am I supposed to do anything important? I’m like a toddler. The Goblin probably has more practical skills than I do.”

Percy runs a hand down Monty’s back, and muscles that he didn’t even know were tensed relax. “You’re going to learn the important things. What kind of a roommate-slash-boyfriend would I be if I didn’t show you the reins?”

Monty stands back in Percy’s arms, and pulls his face down to kiss him. And, fuck no, a couple tears do not manage to trickle down his cheeks. 

* * *

They end up having to soak the kettle to get the taste of tea out of it. Percy gives Monty very specific instructions as to how to work the coffee machine, and he scrambles some eggs and toasts some bread while it brews. They eat at the coffee table, on the floor, with their legs tangled together under the table. Percy’s words from earlier keep echoing through Monty’s mind. _The first day of the rest of your life._

They chat about finding room for some of the trinkets Monty shoved in his suitcases while packing the previous morning. They’re mostly framed photographs, and, of those, mostly of the two of them. There are a couple of him and Felicity. One of himself, as a baby. 

(“You had the cutest chubby cheeks,” Percy said, holding the frame up beside Monty’s face. “What _happened_ to you?”)

Percy’s cell phone is charging on the end table, and it rings as he’s gathering their dirty plates. He reaches for it with the hand that had been holding the duvet closed around him, and his makeshift toga begins to slide off his shoulders. 

“I don’t suppose you’d get that for me.”

Monty is leaning back against the sofa, watching the struggle, eyes wide and eyebrows quirked. “Oh, not a chance,” he says. 

Percy groans, drops the duvet completely, and answers the phone. Monty barely gets to delight in the ravishing sight in front of him before Percy passes the phone to him, saying, “It’s your sister.”

“Felicity, this had better be good, you’re interrupting a rather important—”

“ _Stop_. I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know. Whatever you and your boyfriend get up to behind closed doors should remain behind closed doors.”

“Prude.”

“Well, if you answered your bloody phone, I wouldn’t have to harass poor Percy.”

“Bold of you to assume that I had your number saved in the first place.”

Monty can practically hear the eye-roll. He smiles to himself. There’s a strange comfort, a sort of familiarity, in annoying his sister. From the kitchen sink, Percy calls, “Put her on speakerphone!”

He comes to sit next to Monty on the floor, and his arms wind themselves instinctively around Percy’s waist. He has to swat away Monty’s hands, which keep travelling lower and lower. “Careful, love,” he murmurs. In a louder voice, he asks, “How are you, Felicity?”

“Completely exhausted,” she replies. “And, honestly, rather frustrated. I can’t tell whether or not I should unpack. This is all so sudden, it’s hard to tell how permanent my living situation is.”

“You’re not staying at a hotel, are you?” Percy says. “Because if you are, we’ve got room for you, here. You could take the sofa.”

Monty elbows Percy in the ribs, and he yelps in surprise. “What was that for?”

“I’ve only just gotten you to myself,” Monty says, in a pitch that’s embarrassingly close to a whine. “Don’t go offering the sofa.”

“Once again, Percy, I’m left wondering how anyone as kind as you can just decide to spend the rest of their life with my brother. I’m quite alright, thank you. I’ve, er, actually made amends with Johanna Hoffman, if you remember her. She’s living off her mother’s inheritance. It’s not too bad. A little cramped. There’s a big dog.”

Monty’s lip curls into a smirk at the mention of Johanna Hoffman. She always had the most painfully obvious crush on Percy. And, while clearly he sees where she was coming from, Monty takes a great deal of pride in being his one and only. 

“What’s in the cards for you, now?” he asks his sister. “Let me guess. You’ve found yourself destitute, and you’re selling your body to the night.”

“No, Monty, that’s more in your line of employment.”

“Hey, now,” Percy says, at the same time as Monty mutters, “Well, I _do_ know how to put on a show.”

“I suppose I’ll be speaking to a bank about student loans,” Felicity continues, “seeing as there isn’t a tyrannical father with archaic morals in my way anymore. And I’ve already sent job applications to a few bookstores. Even with the loan, medical school won’t pay for itself.” There’s an awkward silence, and then she asks, “Er, have you found a job, yet, Monty?”

The thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. Apart from the brief consideration of the sex industry, that is. 

“I’ll start looking soon. Between my charm and good looks, who wouldn’t want to hire me?”

* * *

As it turns out, charm and good looks alone don’t take one very far in job hunting. Monty applies for several jobs — everything from a secretary at a law firm to a cashier at Nando’s — but most places won’t even give him an interview once they hear that he’s got no experience. 

Monty wonders how he’s supposed to get experience if no place will hire him. It’s not _his_ fault that he was handed everything on a silver platter for the first twenty-one years of his life. He tries not to let it get to him, though. He’s still got a roof over his head, and a Percy to wake up next to every morning. 

He’s napping on the sofa, one evening, and the flat has gotten all dark, because of the damn east-facing windows, that are really good for nothing. Felicity had called that morning. Or, rather, Percy had called her. Because he’s sweet and caring in a way that Monty could never be, even though each day drags him further down to Earth. 

She’s already been approved for a student loan, and gotten a job at a bookstore. Now, she’s just waiting on her university applications to arrive. Cambridge. Oxford. All the names that were thrown around during Monty’s Eton days. “ _Father went to Oxford, but I think I’ll go rogue and try for Cambridge.” “It is such a pity how old Oxford has let itself go these days._ ”

Monty can’t help but feel his spirits sink. The feeling only gets worse, only turns to actual guilt, when Percy bursts through the front door, violin case in hand, and says, “Bloody hell, it’s dark in here.”

His boyfriend has finished a hard day of studying and then teaching music to overprivileged children, and Monty can’t even flick a fucking lightswitch. He opens his eyes, and watches as Percy turns on the overhead lights, and walks past him to close the blinds. Then he heads to the bedroom, shrugging his jumper off as he goes, and emerges a moment later, sans-violin and stripped down to a white T-shirt and black jeans. 

He sits at Monty’s feet, guiding his legs into his lap. “Have you heard back from any more places, yet?”

Monty doesn’t want to tell him that there are no more places to hear back from. That the position at the law firm was given to a girl fresh out of secretary school, and Nando’s only sent a two-lined email.

_We’re sorry._

_The position has been filled._

But Percy is looking at him expectantly, and with hope, goddamnit, and Monty knows he can’t just ignore the question. He sits up, throws his arms around Percy’s shoulders, and buries his face in his chest. 

He’s shaking. And, it must be the late-November pollen in the air, because his eyes are watering. Monty knows Percy must be startled, because his response is so delayed. He tangles one hand in Monty’s hair, and runs the other up and down his back. 

“I’m sorry,” Monty mumbles. “God, this is … it’s so fucking stupid. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

He tries to pull back, but Percy strengthens his hold on Monty’s head, holding him in place. “Hey, no,” he says, all gentle tones and trickling concern. “Don’t apologize. What’s the matter? I thought you weren’t going to let the rejection get to you.”

“It’s not that.” Monty’s voice is muffled by Percy’s chest. He can feel his heartbeat against his cheek. “Well, not just that. It’s … well, look at me. I’ve been home all day. I’ve been home all week. Where’s the dinner waiting for you? Where’s the nice, tidy flat for you to come home to? I’m not surprised that I can’t find a job, but I’d always thought that I’d at least be able to look after you.”

“Monty.” Percy releases his hold, and pulls him back, so they’re just centimetres apart. “The whole point of being massively gay is to not have a little housewife waiting up for me.” Monty snorts, and wipes at his eyes, which totally aren’t wet from tears, and Percy continues, “I understand that this is different for you. You’re doing the best that you can! Remember when you picked our dirty clothes off the floor yesterday? That’s something. You’re trying. And I’m happy with you. Even if you do ruin my kettles.”

“Percy Newton. You great big sap.” They both laugh at that. Monty smiles at him, but he can’t keep the sadness from his voice as he says, “Thank you for believing in me.”

Percy beams at him, because he always seems to know how to react to Monty’s moods, and right now Monty needs someone to pretend like everything is fine. He decides that he’s going to spontaneously combust if he doesn’t kiss him soon, so he leans forward, and Percy meets him halfway. 

It’s a gentle kiss, a ‘thank you’ kiss. Monty can feel Percy smiling into it. He puts a hand to Percy’s jaw, and strokes his chin with his thumb while his fingers smooth down the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. There’s an infinite source of happiness and stability under his hand. Monty knows it’s a well that will never run dry. He can feel his own well, the well that exists for Percy alone, and knows it’s just as bottomless, even if it doesn’t stand for the same things. 

* * *

Life goes on. Felicity starts coming to dinner once a week, usually waving around screenshots of medical articles for Percy. Monty doesn’t hear back from any more jobs. He acts like he doesn’t care, like it isn’t a weight on his chest that’s slowly cracking each rib, and it’s only a matter of time before his organs are smushed. He can deal with being penniless, disowned, proud, and cocky. He just can’t deal with letting Percy down. 

And he knows. He _knows_ that Percy isn’t upset with him. He’s angry with the places that keep turning him down. He’s sad to see Monty so hurt. But however indirectly, Monty knows he’s the cause of all this. 

He tries to get out, at least. Within a month of establishing the Newton-Montague household (or, flat-hold), he realizes that the River Thames is only a few minutes away. He runs next to it in the mornings, after he sees Percy off to school. Then he occupies his day with benign tasks — he’s gotten the hang of laundry and pasta, now — and walks along the river again before Percy comes home in the evenings. 

Monty steps out one morning, and immediately turns back around to fetch a running jacket. The first signs of winter are creeping up on London. Monty can smell the frost in the air, and can see the light but domineering clouds in the sky. 

He’s wearing a peacoat and silk scarf when he heads back out in the afternoon. A fog is creeping in from the opposite bank, and he wishes the streetlights would hurry up and turn on. Not that he’s worried, or anything. He reminds himself that his stockiness must be good for something when it comes to, well, violent confrontations in a dodgy part of a metropolis. 

He’s just thinking about how he should put on a pot of tea when he gets home, when a man calls out, “Nice evening for a stroll.”

Monty nearly walks right by him, then has to fight back the urge to cover his face as he wonders how he missed the bloke at all. He’s well over six feet, even as he leans back against the streetlight which still refuses to turn on. 

“Seems like you’d catch Jack the Ripper out on a night like this,” Monty replies. Against his better judgement, he stops and waits for the man’s response. 

The man turns to face him. He’s lankier than Monty first thought, hidden beneath a large coat. He inspects Monty for a moment, then bursts out laughing, long and deep. 

“You know, boy, I don’t think you’re wrong about that.”

Monty steps closer without realizing he’s doing it. The man continues, “When I was a sailor, not too long ago, mind, I used to love it when a fog would roll in. Most of the others, they’d hate it. But not me. I trusted the boat, and my men, and of course my own ability.” He taps his temple with his forefinger, then extends his hand. “The name’s Scipio.”

He shakes his hand. “Monty.”

“I saw you out here yesterday, Monty,” Scipio says. “Are you a water-loving man, yourself?”

“Lord, no,” he blurts. Then it occurs to him that that may have been insulting, and he adds, “Well, er, it’s just that I’m not the best swimmer. But I like it in theory, I suppose! All of that … vastness.”

Scipio laughs again. “I worked on the water since I was seventeen. Thought I was indestructible at the time, too. Reckless as all hell, getting blackout drunk whenever I had a night off. Well, I’m paying the price now. The drink’s ruined my lungs. The risk of tuberculosis and pneumonia are too high to get back out on the water for any amount of time.”

He gazes forlornly at the river, and Monty recognizes his expression. Longing is all too familiar with him. And, he knows a thing or two about reckless pastimes as well. He finds himself talking to Scipio, despite the fact that he was a perfect stranger until five minutes ago. They swap stories of complicated families, the relatives who could be loved in spite of the japes and snipes, and the ones who would never be forgiven. They talk about longing, Monty’s teenage lust turned into the sincerest form of love, and Scipio’s banishment from the one place that ever felt like home. 

Before Monty knows it, the sun has gone down, and the streetlamps are finally lit. Percy will be home soon. He might be home already. He apologizes to Scipio and says his goodbyes, promising to stop and chat if he sees him again tomorrow. 

As he turns to walk away, Scipio calls out, “Hold on, boy!”

Monty turns back to the streetlamp. 

“I’m running a shipping company that works out of Lambeth. The office is nearby.” He reaches into his pocket, then presses a gilded piece of paper into Monty’s hand. A business card. “Call me sometime this week. We’ll see about finding you some work.”

Monty has reached a state of speechlessness that he usually only achieves when Percy is whispering filthy things in his ear. “I … you don’t…”

Scipio flaps his hand dismissively. “You seem like a good kid. Remind me of myself, when I was younger. What kind of a man would I be if I didn’t offer you the chance to make things better that I never got?”

Monty wants to hug him. Instead he just stands there, alternating between grinning and gaping at him, and finally stammers, “Great — I’ll, er — I’ll call tomorrow.”

As he walks away, he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh hysterically or just pass out. 

* * *

The TV is on when Monty gets home one evening, the next week. Percy’s lectures end early on Thursdays. It’s the only time he ever beats Monty home. 

He’s tired, but in a good way, and he feels proud and satisfied in a way that he never has before as he steps out of his shoes and hangs his jacket on the wall. Percy looks up from the sofa, smiling. 

“Hello, love,” he says. Monty climbs onto the sofa, and falls limp on top of Percy, with his head against his chest. Percy presses a kiss to his forehead. “How was work?”

Monty reaches into his pocket, and flaps an envelope in front of Percy’s face. “Pretty brilliant. Got my first paycheque.”

Working with Scipio isn’t glamorous, by any means. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have even considered the position. But it’s good work. No manual labour to muss up his perfect hair, just office work. They get sent reports from the docks, and Monty types the reports into the computer. A customer is angry that they messed up their order, and Monty talks them down. He doubts he’ll be working there for the rest of his life, but he’s fine with that. Besides, Scipio says he’s got a real talent for persuading people. 

“I’m not just your kept man anymore,” Monty says, flashing Percy a cheeky grin. “Maybe, in a few years, I’ll get so good at this job that you can stop working and just sit around looking pretty.”

Percy snorts. “Would you buy me silk loungewear?”

“I was thinking lace. And perhaps something more revealing than loungewear.”

“Henry Montague, I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re insinuating.”

Monty shifts so that his chin rests on Percy’s chest, and they can look at each other. “Let me spell it out, then.” He lowers his voice to the tone he normally reserves for the bedroom, and says, “When I get you dressed like a Victoria’s Secret model, I can die a happy man.”

Percy weaves his fingers into Monty’s hair, playing with the curls and rubbing his scalp, and his eyes close at the feeling. He wants to stay like this forever. Jesus, he’d make a religion out of worshipping Percy’s fingers if he could. They’re good for a lot more than just massaging one’s head. 

He opens his eyes long enough to reach for the neck of Percy’s jumper, and to push it off his shoulders. Percy’s breath hitches as he works a hand in between the buttons on his shirt, running his fingertips across the skin of his chest. 

“I’ve been so proud of you this week,” Percy whispers, the silence now heavy between them. 

“I love you, darling,” Monty replies. He pops the top button of Percy’s shirt open, so that he has enough room to slide his hand further across his chest and roll a nipple between his thumb and his forefinger. And that’s all it takes. 

Percy rolls so that he’s on top of him. Monty spreads his legs, and he kneels in the cradle between them. Their mouths are pushed together with so much eagerness that their noses bump together, but Monty wraps a hand around the back of Percy’s neck and pulls him in closer, so that Percy’s knees slide out from under him and their chests are pressed together. He rights himself by supporting his weight on his forearms, on either side of Monty’s head. Percy’s thigh is a dead weight between his legs, and he lifts his hips to get more friction. 

Percy pins Monty’s hips down, and pulls back long enough to look down at him. His eyes search Monty’s, as though trying to memorize every last speck of colour. 

“You’ll be the death of me one day,” he murmurs, and then he’s back in action so fast it makes Monty’s head spin. Percy’s kneeling again, his knee pressed much more deliberately against him, and Monty is craning his neck pepper kisses across his face, on every freckle he can reach. 

He catches his lips again. Monty wants to thank whoever’s kissed Percy before him for teaching him to do that thing with his tongue. He bites Monty’s lip, then licks the spot, and does it again, until his lips are sensitive to the very air circulating in the room. 

Monty’s hands are all over him. Running down his back. Grabbing onto his upper arms. Carding through his hair. His movements are frantic, desperate, and finally he gets hold of another one of his buttons. He undoes the next two, and Percy pulls away to tug the shirt over his head. Then he leans back down to pull Monty’s shirt off, with it. 

Monty doesn’t let him stop and look him over, this time around. He grabs hold of Percy’s shoulders, and rolls them over so that he is laying on top, now, chests flush together. Monty can feel Percy’s heartbeat on his skin, going a mile a minute, and it only speeds up when he latches onto the sensitive spot on his neck. 

Percy is whining in a matter of seconds, dropping his head back against the cushion to give Monty better access and tugging on his hair at the same time. Monty goes through the motions of _suck, bite, lick, kiss, suck, bite, lick, kiss,_ until he’s satisfied that Percy will have one of those lovebites that he has to hide beneath popped collars. Then he travels lower, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake, and catches a nipple between his teeth. 

Percy arches his back so quickly that the slides a couple centimetres. All the while, Percy curses under his breath, his words garbled except for, “fuck,” and, “Monty,” and, “ _more_.” 

“ _More?_ ” Monty repeats, raising himself from Percy’s chest to quirk an eyebrow. “And what would that include?”

“Anything, Jesus, Monty, _please_.” And, as if to demonstrate just how desperate he is, Percy lifts his hips to grind his still-clothed erection against Monty’s. 

He slides his hands down Percy’s torso, then undoes the button on his jeans. There’s the sting of nails digging into the skin of his back as he pushes past Percy’s briefs to touch his skin again. 

Monty recalls a night very similar to this, almost two months ago, now, pressed up together on the sofa with his hands down Percy’s trousers, three suitcases sitting in the bedroom. Percy had pulled Monty down to whisper a phrase he’d repeated the next morning, “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”

And what a life it is.


End file.
